


Forward, Under the Shelter of Dreams

by napobrassica



Category: THE iDOLM@STER: SideM
Genre: Character Study, Childhood, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25029439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/napobrassica/pseuds/napobrassica
Summary: "You probably wouldn't have to think about this yet," suddenly, from somewhere behind the headrest, uncharacteristically light ― his father's voice not quite as grounded as it would usually be. "But a part of me, as a teacher, wants to make my students proud, too."The weight of his father sitting next to him, placing a leather-bound photo album on his lap pulls him out of a particularly persistent lull. Michio sits himself upright, presses the heel of his palm over his eyelids, then through the sliding hem of his sleeves onto his knees."Is that something adults think about?" he attempts, through a yawn. "Wouldn't it be the other way around?Submitted as a part of theinSideM Anthology
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	Forward, Under the Shelter of Dreams

"Are you sure I'm allowed to be here?" Michio stops midway, takes a step backwards as he catches his reflection on the glass doors.  
  
The too-long sleeves of his father's old black gakuran seem crystalline, almost, a faded overlay against an unfamiliar row of potted tulips, three sets of steps up into a lobby he has not yet set foot into before.  
  
He isn't quite used to the heavy woollen trousers either, its hemline way past his knees, folded twice up his ankles.  
  
"I don't see why not," his father hums, switching out his shoes for slippers from the shoe lockers, just up ahead. "I wouldn't have brought you here, otherwise."  
  
Michio questions the need for him to wear this at all, then, if that's the case, but says nothing. At some point, he has come to realise that the gakuran is less a disguise and more that his grandmother probably just took it as an opportunity to see how he would look in one.  
  
As a stifled chuckle and a wave from a passing faculty member towards both Michio and his father have demonstrated, he clearly isn't fooling anyone into believing that he is a grade over primary five.  
  
"You'll grow into it." The lopsided smile his father shows him is two parts fond, one part exasperated ― dusk filled hallways, tactile warmth, his knuckles knocking against the wooden latch.  
  
He slides his office door open. Quite clatters, a drag and pull along the railings with an almost playful flourish, leading Michio in.  
  
"I don't think I've ever seen the inside of a Principal's office before," partway within his own thoughts, not quite sure himself, if he had said it aloud.  
  
"I just hope the day you do outside of this, it's not because you got yourself into trouble," he hears his father say in response. "Not that I'd ever have to worry about that, I don't think."  
  
Michio takes a moment away to look at his father, upturned eyebrows, a little pout at the thought that he would even insinuate that.  
  
"Right, right. I'm sorry." His father laugh comes with his footsteps following him inside, the sound of fingers skittering across the edge of his desk, up a stack of binders, his nameplate, before arriving on the top of Michio's head ― a passing tousle through his hair.  
  
A beat passes, then two. Michio's father starts humming a little off-beat tune, going through his shelves. Michio himself is content, just counting clouds outside the window, watching them pass as the sunset grows deeper in colour.  
  
Somehow he discovers that the guest sofa in his father's office might be one of the comfiest he has sat on yet. Fighting against a too-late afternoon nap, he couldn't quite hold himself back from nodding off.  
  
He wonders, off-hand, why his grandparents favour the old beaten ceiba sofa in their family living room.  
  
"You probably wouldn't have to think about this yet," suddenly, from somewhere behind the headrest, uncharacteristically light ― his father's voice not quite as grounded as it would usually be. "But a part of me, as a teacher, wants to make my students proud, too."  
  
The weight of his father sitting next to him, placing a leather-bound photo album on his lap pulls him out of a particularly persistent lull. Michio sits himself upright, presses the heel of his palm over his eyelids, then through the sliding hem of his sleeves onto his knees.  
  
"Is that something adults think about?" he attempts, through a yawn. "Wouldn't it be the other way around?"  
  
He thinks to spare a quick glance ― at the trophies, certificates his father's students have had given this school, pristine and preserved, lining the glass case behind them. Still, he adjusts his glasses, askew on the bridge of his nose, cards through the hair matted against his temple.  
  
"You would normally assume that, wouldn't you?"  
  
At the end of his father's sheepish voice was a smile barely contained, gentle ― his expression soft, altogether.  
  
Michio stays quiet, thinks, for a while, formulating an appropriate reply. Drawn by subtle movement in his periphery, Michio tilts his head downwards, watches the way his father would idly thumb through the album cover.  
  
"I'd like to be able to make you proud one day?" he murmurs, after a while, against curled fingers.  
  
"I hope that wouldn't be something that'll weigh on you in the long run," his father says, indulgent.  
  
Michio pouts as his father ruffles his hair, more than a little put out that obviously, he's taking some form of enjoyment out of the tufts on the top of his head fluffing back against his palm more than anything.  
  
He hadn't even realised that he had his brows knitted together, all this time.  
  
Though, in turn, he thinks that he might have arrived at his answer.  
  
"I'm proud of you," he finds himself firmly say. "And I'm sure your students think of you the same way, too."  
  
Unlike the loose-leaf binders, neat rows atop his desk, papers immaculately pressed and filed, his father's photo albums ― despite the same amount of care visibly put into them ― are worn from all the constant handling, he notices. Creased, slightly, along the edges, faded, around the corners.  
  
"You gave them a path for their dream." He doesn't know how his smile would have looked, right now. He hopes it's every bit as calm as he feels, resolve filling his chest, resolute.  
  
"Just like you might have, for mine."  
  
His father says nothing. He takes his line of sight away, over his shoulder, past the window panes, down, across the coffee table as he sighs. He comes back, always, always, with same unchanging regard he holds his son ― a constant between them both.  
  
"You're free to change course whenever you want." His father's voice, at very that moment, is the warmest Michio has ever heard.  
  
"I know," he says once. And then again, as if a kind of reassurance, "I know."

**Author's Note:**

> The one time Michio mentions his father and I jumped on it so fast laughs. His dad is a middle school principal!! His work ethic, his passion for education, his nurturing nature towards his students!!!! I wonder if all of that was influenced by his father aaaaaaa
> 
> What a good boye


End file.
